Chapter Fifteen
Elves and Eyes
Outrunning a group of Scarborough Knights would have been as impossible as Art twisting his body into a loop and rolling down the road like a wheel. He knew their dexterity, agility, and stamina was superior to the races of men but he did not know just how impressive they were until Ever had scaled the gate as if popping over a bump in the road. Coupled with the knowledge that he had helped carry Art across the countryside during his unconscious demon battle to the city they were now in, suggested combat against a dozen trained Knights was foolhardy at best and suicidal at worst.
Art felt his gut tighten, his heart spinning in his chest as the leader of the group approached, hand on his blade but not drawing.
“You are Everther Nahrwel?”
Art and Lucid both looked to the elf, who seemed perplexed at the inquiry.
“I am.” the elf lifted his chin slightly, eyes stern on the advancing captain.
The leader turned and motioned for the elves to stand down. In unison, they lowered their weapons, but kept them at the ready, eyes on Art and Lucid.
“I am Dahnaren Finnafor, leader of the Birchwood Garrison. I saw you on the market street and gave pursuit. I seek words with you.” He was as tall as Ever, but his hair was silvery gray, eyes a deep brown, and his skin a porcelain cream. He did look very much like some kind of birch tree kin.
“Why would the Birchwood Garrison be in search of me?”
“Ever, there’s no time,” Art hissed knowing the Weirimen would still be on their tail and could appear any minute in force.
“I am sorry, Captain Finnafor, but I am currently—”
“Forgive me, but I believe I am aware of your situation. Many in the Scarborough Knights know of your plight, Nahrwel, and know of your reputation prior to the incident with the dryad. My condolences on those happenings. We of the Birchwood Garrison are sympathetic and find your sacrifice of your position for her life a noble one. That being said, I am not in understanding of your association with the Weiriman his Guild is now hunting. I have been privy to the wanted noticed and its mention of you. For this issue I had to seek you out.”
“For what purpose?” Ever narrowed his eyes.
“That would depend on your reasons for associating with this afflicted.”
There was a moment of silence where it appeared Ever weighed if he felt he needed to explain himself to the other elf. Then, taking a slight breath, he spoke.
“This man, Art Storygrove, is afflicted but he is a good and honorable man, a better Weiriman than all I have encountered before. He has promised to aid me in removing the dryad from my Haunting Weir without harming her. He has the skill and the tool but we are in search of the proper method. In this endeavor, a second quest has emerged and that is to remove the demon afflicting him, which can be done with the same blade that will aid my plight. We must get into the catacombs in order to attain this knowledge.”
“The dispatch says he is beyond aid and must be brought in.”
“This information hails from the same people who deemed the spirit inside me a ghost affliction that should be exorcised and moved on, essentially killing the dryad. Weirimen are quick to judgment when a difficult situation presents itself that is in connection with ghosts, demons, and afflicted of any manner. They are singular in their desire to rid the world of such things.”
“This is not a negative thing, Nahrwel. The world is plagued by evil forces and the Weirimen are a great force against that invading tide.”
“Yes, but not all touched and afflicted are to be dealt with only a singular set of monochrome rules. Discretion and preservation of life is also essential to that fight. I tell you this man is not beyond hope anymore than I, myself am.”
Finnafor stared at Ever for a long moment, brown eyes looking hard into the green. Art felt himself bunch up into a knot inside hoping this was not going to be a longer conversation than it had already turned into. They were so vulnerable to the Weirimen finding them Art might as well start walking back to the Guild house. Then, as if the breaking of spring on a winter pond Finnafor’s stoic face broke into a smile and he nodded.
“Where is it you are headed?”
“The catacombs!” Art blurted out causing both elves to look at him. “This door here.”
“The catacombs can be very dangerous and dark,” Finnafor warned.
“I have a soul lantern!” Art could not help but smile with relief and he fished the thing out of his bag. “It will help against both wandering spirits and the dark, two in one. Can we leave now? The Weirimen are close.”
“You will need it.” The elf eyed the lantern in Art’s hand. “Go, my Garrison will wait here and move the Weirimen along when they come. Should you find your way soon we will still be here. Should night fall, you can find us at the Silver Whale Inn for the next day. Seek us out and we will help smuggle you out of the city.”
“Thank you for your aid, Finnafor.”
“We are brethren.” The commander smiled again as he clasped Ever by the wrist and they shook hands. “Now go, I hear a group approaching.”
“Yes, boots on the street at a run.” Ever confirmed as he and Art pulled open the aged heavy door. “We will seek you upon our return.”
Art’s lantern blazed to life as the darkness poured out as if made of smoke.
“Thank you.” Art looked up at the other elf, who stood on the slope above the pit that was the catacombs' entrance.
“Everther Nahrwel is a great Knight among our ranks. If he trusts you, Weiriman, so do I.”
Art nodded his thanks and followed Ever and Lucid into the underground network. The elves closed the door behind them and the bleakness of the catacombs set it. While still near the surface, the light of two front window holes showed some illumination in. The place was somewhat diminutive, carved out of rock many long years ago. There was little sign of upkeep or even recent entrance. Dust thick along the stone floor and walls, cobwebs, and stale air greeted their nostrils.
Art started to lead the way when Lucid gripped his arm. Turning, the man started to question when he was greeted by the boy’s eyes, completely black and white.
“What’s wrong?” Art frowned, wondering why Lucid would be touching on his nightmare form.
“Evil down here.”
Ever and Art exchanged a glance but knowing they had no other choice, Art patted the boy with his gloved hand.
“I know, but we have to go down there.”
Lucid’s black and white eyes bore into him. Art wondered what he might be thinking, but in a few blinks, Lucid’s eyes returned to their natural blue. Perhaps the thought of going too deep underground unnerved the boy. Art was not sure. Before they went on Lucid tapped Art again and when the man turned he made the motion of eating and then pointed to Art’s pack where he kept the Scarlet Extinction.
“I don’t have many left,” Art cautioned.
Lucid’s eyes were unwavering.
“Perhaps you should do as the boy says,” Ever advised, his face pointed towards the darkness before them. “Should the demon be drawn out in such a place, it could likely lead to your end.”
“The calls of the damned grow ever stronger,” Orchid’s voice rose out of the elf and she once again appeared in a flourish of light.
“What do you hear?” Ever asked, watching.
With eyes closed, she listened to voices he could not hear, feeling things he could not sense. “The cries of lost souls, tormented, hungry. There is also something else, demonic voices. They are quiet though, strangely. It is the cries of the dead that have lost their way here that are the most prominent,” she explained, coming to hover before Ever, his hand going to hers even though they could not touch.
Art had noted this interaction between them often. How hard it must be on the couple to have fallen in love post this odd tragedy, having never been able to touch. It was one of the things ghosts craved above all and ofte
n a reason they lingered after death, refusing to cross over. The pull to touch and feel a loved one once more, was a strong temptation to seek life once again. Art was trained to mostly exorcise demons but Weirimen were often called upon to remove a ghost, spirit or presence from a person, place or thing. Orchid was seen as just a thing by his Guild, but watching the pair interact Art could see beyond that reasoning. With her body still alive, she was not just a wandering spirit longing for life. She was not like the strange things that likely wandered the haunted tunnels before them.
Art pulled his mask up again. In his condition, he could not afford to breath much more of the touched air. It would weaken him to the demon within him, as well as the voices and things he would encounter. Weirimen dealt with things that came out of the catacombs and attacked people, but he could sense now there was something deep and old about the place. There was no way to clear an area this touched. It seemed an appropriate place for the entrance to the Consciatosium.
“Take the candy,” Ever insisted as he passed the man, his eyes scanning the steep sloping stairs before them.
Not wanting to, but knowing the youth and elf were right, Art pulled his mask down and retrieved the candy before repositioning his pack and following Ever and Orchid.
“What is the function of that thing on your face?” Ever asked as the light from the windows started to wane, their descent on the stairs quickening its dimming.
“Demons and haunted ground give off a demonic miasma. We call it Sin Breath, that races of men can breathe in, like a pollution that effects your soul, mind, and weakens your Weir. It makes us more susceptible to evil, possession and dark thoughts.”
“Elves are immune to such things. I would think living in a city like this, the Sin Breath would be fairly thick. Is that not unwise to make such a place your home?”
Art could hear the judgment in the elf’s voice and found himself chuckling a little rather than being offended. “I supposed you’re right. However, we have measures against it. These masks filter it and people can eat different kinds of Umbra candies to counteract it. Shadow Confectioners are usually present in towns like this. They keep the people healthy from Sin Breath. Weirimen are less affected by it, but we always have the mask as a precaution. But down here I thought it best to put it on, especially with my…”
“Condition?” Orchid offered the word and Art nodded with a slight smile.
“Interesting profession,” Ever added. “Did you ever consider Shadow Confectionary opposed to the more dangerous one of a Weiriman?”
“Like Weirimen, you have to be born with a talent to deal with demonic energy and Sin Breath, not to mention you have to be able to cook and create the candy. The latter doesn't come easily to me and Shadow Confectioners do see some danger themselves, though nothing like Weirimen of course. But I never considered another profession. I was born to be a Weiriman.”
Ghost and elf gave Art a glance but said nothing, their thoughts on Art’s conviction already known by their actions and faith in him.
Directly after the stairs was a wide corridor lit by a strange reddish light, so low it was almost harder to see in the ruddy hue. Stepping off the stone steps, Art’s boots splashed in the thin layer of water covering the ground. Musty air whistled softly through the corridors beyond, carrying with it a faint singing: high and airy.
“What is that?” Ever’s voice was low.
“Ghostly singing. It’s often heard in haunted places like this. I never really knew why, but some tormented sing to themselves, especially old ghosts trapped for many, many decades.”
“It comforts them,” Orchid suddenly said, floating between man and elf and then into the corridor as if drawn by the voices. “Singing translates their pain and anguish more than talking. It carries their emotion as well as their meaning…”
“Orchid!" Ever said sharply and she turned to him startled. Her eyes were a strong, bright yellow, lacking all the lovely hued plum that illuminated them so softly before. She looked strange, more transparent, her glow dusky. “Do not listen to the songs of the dead.”
She stared at him a moment, her eyes glossy but starting to return to normal. Art suddenly understood Ever’s fear. She was closer to the dead than to the living in her present state and it was entirely possible she could slip away to the other side whether or not he released her. The pull of the other dead could be a serious threat to the beautiful dryad.
“What’s this red glow?” Art asked purposely changing the subject. There was little more they could do for Orchid than watch her closely.
“Afterlife stone,” Ever informed. “It is rock infused with the energy of the dead. It glows when it interacts with the energy of the living.”
“I should have remembered that,” Art mumbled as he led the way into the wet corridor.
The red lit hall opened up into several hallways and Art drew out his compass for direction. The needle spun and spun but would not focus. After a moment, Ever glanced at the Weiriman, an eyebrow raised.
“Is there a reason for the unusually long consultation of a relatively simple device?”
Art slid the elf a flat glance, followed by a worried look. “I’m afraid there might be too much scattered demonic energy. My compass won’t focus.”
“I thought the Consciatosium would have the strongest collection of energy and would pull your compass as this very location did.”
“For whatever reason that does not appear to be the case.”
“I feel it, Brother.” Lucid was suddenly right next to Art, his skin black as ebony again, his eyes white and glowing. “Follow.”
The boy turned down a corridor quickly. Art and Ever had to break into a run after him not to lose sight of the boy in the ever-growing darkness of the catacombs. It was not long before the light of the red hued hallway was completely gone and they were wholly reliant on the luminance of Art’s lantern.
Deeper and deeper they followed Lucid, the walls growing high and low at the different shapes of the tunnels. It was becoming colder and though the group had glanced moving shadows, strange forms and whispered movements just beyond the scope of light, they did not acknowledge nor discuss what everyone knew were wandering souls, ghosts, and other apparitions. It was no good bringing attention to something they desperately needed to pass them by.
Art did note that Orchid, though glowing and luminous, more so than any ghost Art had encountered before, her light did not illuminate the catacombs. The only thing she seemed to light up was herself and Ever. Her glow cast no light on anything else.
Finally, when Art was starting to wonder if they were going to the very center of the planet’s core, they reached a strange tunnel: stone walls stretching so high into the darkness the lantern was unable to reach their ceiling. What was far more alarming than the height of the walls, were the narrowness of the tunnel itself. It was just hardly wide enough for a man’s shoulder width to pass untouched by the old stone. It made Art feel squeezed and slightly claustrophobic.
“Here,” Lucid said, his form returning to normal. He stretched an arm out and pointed.
“Down this corridor?” Art asked, holding the lantern up as something glinted in its light at the end of the long, narrow passage.
Lucid nodded.
Art was certain it was his imagination, but the passage way seemed to grow even tighter as they headed down it, single file, Art’s lantern light leading. The air felt thin, smelling of dust and wet stone. Finally, after a long, unnerving trek in the dark they came to a very small aged door, iron hinged, wood worn and tried. Frowning, Art lifted the lantern inspecting it to find a very small window near the top.
“What have you found, Storygrove?”
“It’s a tiny door,” Art answered bending so that he could peer into the hole.
“Be careful,” the elf warned, but Art knew there was little to do other than to scrutinize.
It was in an awkward position to
his height and he had to bend at his waist and knees to get down to it but soon he was looking into the slot of the door. Inside was a stone face, startled at first, Art pulled back as suddenly a pair of eyes opened, red, glowing and pupil-less.
“You seek knowledge of the darkness, the world behind the Veil, forbidden and secret, things that should not be known?” The voice was deep, odd sounding, as if the thing were in a huge auditorium bent to allow sound to bounce and resonate.
“There’s a hole here with a red-eyed glowing thing inside asking me a question,” Art reported as both the elf and Lucid tried to see over his shoulder, the space too narrow for them to come up beside the man.
“What did it ask you?”
Art repeated the question and the elf seemed puzzled. “I am uncertain how to properly answer this question. Could be some kind of strange trap? Or a spell?”
“I had the same thought,” Ever admitted.
“How will we know?” Orchid asked, peeking over Ever’s head. Even though she was not physically limited like the others, she appeared to find it off not to stand in line as they were all doing.
“I’m not sure.” Art had not expected to be greeted with a puzzle.
As he thought, Lucid seemed to grow impatient and suddenly started wiggling his way past Art. Bewildered, the man tried to move but the space was too narrow and they ended up struggling awkwardly until Lucid was pressing Art against the wall just so he could get his face to the little window.
“Lucid! What is wrong with you?! What the hell—”
“Yes,” Lucid said into the door’s slot.
“Passage will require reflection of one’s self. Should you be willing to face the mirror you may enter the Consciatosium.”
“Lucid!” Art scolded but the door’s handle clicked and the little entry opened slowly, creaking loudly. Lucid wriggled past Art, who cursed and glared but the boy ignored him going to the black opening of the door.
“Wait!” The others all said at the same time but Lucid disappeared.
Cursing even more, Art went after him, careful not to bang his head on the very low frame. As soon as he stepped in, there was no need for his lantern as a large ornate chandelier lit up made of cast iron, hanging lowly in the room. The space looked much like a cell hewn from the rock itself. Eyes scanning, Art tucked the lantern back into his pack before he caught sight of Lucid on the other side of the room standing before three enormous and dirty mirrors.
“Lucid, you shouldn’t just—” Art stopped as he came to stand before the mirrors just as the boy, but found only Lucid was reflected in them.
Confused, he noted the middle one was a normal reflection, showing the boy with his wild black hair, blue eyes and everything Art normally saw. The one to Lucid’s right reflected the nightmare form, black, eyes completely white and long taloned hands. That in itself made some sense but the one to Art’s left was a surprise. Before him was a large elaborate dreamcatcher, circular, with many threads, some of which held things woven and tied into it.
Before Art could ask what it meant the red eyes appeared in the black space above the mirrors.
“You have been seen, Lucid Dreamare. You may pass into the Consciatosium.”
Lucid nodded and looked at Art giving him a reassuring face. He then turned back to the front facing mirror and walked through it as if nothing were there. Art gasped but when he tried to go after him he was greeted with solid dirty glass once more.
“What happened?” Ever and Orchid were suddenly next to Art.
“I don’t know. The mirror or whatever that thing is up there, told Lucid he could go in and so he did! Now the door is gone!”
“Who next stands ready to be reflected in the Mirror of the Consciatosium?” The voice boomed at them.
“If we stand before you you’ll let us in after Lucid?” Art asked to the strange eyes staring down at them. The voice did not respond, only the red glow glowered down at them.
“I feel that if Lucid thought it was safe then perhaps we can as well.” Orchid said quietly.
“We know little about him, but you said he is something of a child of the Weaver and his reputation is that of great wisdom and knowledge,” Ever noted.
“I wonder if you’ll feel the same way once you meet the guy,” Art mumbled recalling very vividly his short encounter with the Weaver and the many times he was certain he was going to physically die.
Ever was giving Art a deeply inquisitive look when the Weiriman sighed and said, “I suppose there is little for us to do but follow Lucid’s example.”
“I shall go next,” Ever proclaimed.
Art nodded, not really sure what to think and took a step back. As soon as he was out of the way of all three mirrors Ever's form appeared along side Orchid. They were such a handsome pair, natural and fey beauty equally portrayed. It was easy to picture them as a couple, bound in love and devotion.
On the right hand side, Orchid appeared. But her form was different, more flower-like, more tree-like, hair of petals and vines, skin a graceful arching tree bark. At her core she was akin to a world separate from man: magical, nature and fragile beauty. That image was bathed in golden sunlight, shimmering in dew and rain. It was nature in a way Art had never taken the time to see: deep magic, pure.
The left side hosted Ever’s image, stripped of his covering clothing and light armor he was more tree-like as well, washed in green hued moonlight looking strong and elemental. Hair far longer, the deep black-green of it shone in starlight as soft leathers and fabrics hugged lean, toned muscle. He was a stunning match to Orchid: virile, strong, natural and timeless. They both were creatures of another world and Art marveled at how they existed in the same state as he.
“You have been seen, Everther Nahrwel. You have been seen Orchid Sarathone. You may pass into the Consciatosium.”
Again the middle mirror disappeared and giving Art a glance, the pair passed through. Art was left standing alone in the strange room. He felt nervous as the glowing eyes silently watched him from their dark cubby above the mirrors. A sudden whispering at the back of his mind reminded him the demon was trying to speak but he knew the effects of the Umbra Sweets were aiding him in suppressing it. Trying to focus his mind away from memories of the beast's voice, he took a step to the mirrors.
The middle reflection looked back at him, and he pulled his hood down to run his hand through the long dark blond strands. Nervous, the amber color around his green eyes brightened until finally he shifted his sight right. He was unprepared to see the two Weirimen from the vision at the Weaver’s home, standing back to back. Behind them were two doors, two Haunting Weirs. In the woman’s hand was, Weir Hewn. The man held the soul lantern he was now carrying. Art was frowning deeply, confused. But he was drawn to the other mirror and nearly jumped back as the Pith demon within him lunged forward in the mirror, smoke and black fire billowing around it, its huge and hideous form pulsing before him in dark, burning breaths.
Terror ripped through Art and he stepped back, feeling the demon would be reaching out for him with its taloned hands, ready to tear him apart and drink out his soul. Before he knew it he had backed into the right hand mirror.
Aghast and shaking, Art nearly yelped when the voice spoke, “You have been seen, Art Storygrove. You may pass into the Consciatosium.”